Thursday, September 04, 2008

poem written in sainte-adele

(for christine mcnair

what do we know, against
a sainted list

a crime of produce, power-station
, kids on bikes ride bridgework

why am I always crossed, in love
a saint no longer is

do they think out like a marigold

a line apart a line of clouds
fence-resting at the razors edge

a row of fish, through french doors

a cycle of slow, bleating hearts
& inadequate warnings


the blood of late summer, brown

an intricate of reds
that echo tourists, tourists, skis

through the songs up to the house
through charcoal to black

through bicycle push, shock-pink

rooted in coral, like trees
& some greenery, some flesh

the way to bridges, highways, breath
is never the same route twice

accumulating chairs, slow passage

of three days into many moons,
a complex multitude

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